My first memory of my Aunt Marcia was her big and preggos with my cousin Ryan.
Her golden brown hippy hair fanned out of that belly and for some reason, I connect her friendly smile welcoming me into her trailer when I was 4ish has a Led Zeppelin soundtrack.
I had been living in the back of some 70s sedan, it was roomie and the backseat was full of toys and stuffed animals. The last memory is more from a spectator vantage. There's a young kid, leaning up backwards in the backseat, elbows holding her up and questioning fists under her chin, watching the flooded streets dissappear as she stared. Some visions would remain her whole life, the site of men in canoes, gliding slowly through the rain. Its in slow motion,but perhaps the men are looking for people in distress, or bodies...
When Mom tells stories of living down on Colfax, tales of Cassady and Kerouac go thru my head and I dream of her life being like theirs. I want the tales of my Mother to be adventurous and downright crazy. I need to believe that I came from a long line of Nagel ladies. All the Nagel ladies?
Yes, tell me of your long line of insanely interesting Nagel ladies. Then I can feel that I am just perhaps par, and not as much "on the edge" ... as I usually do..
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